The storm had passed, but his peace had not returned. Naturally.
Lucien padded barefoot into the sitting room, dragging a hand through his hair, intending to relight the fire and maybe, maybe , enjoy a moment of silence with his tea before sunrise.
But no. Of course not. Why would the gods allow him such peace?
Curled inside the actual fireplace, snoring softly beneath his silk blanket was the chaos incarnate. Her head was tilted back, mouth slightly open, one sock missing. A faint trail of soot lined her cheek like some sort of ridiculous war paint. Goldie was sprawled on her stomach, one paw resting on her cheek.
"Mother," he muttered. "I should have just let you dangle in those vines."
He let her sleep a little longer. Not because he cared—he didn't, obviously—but because waking her up would be louder than letting her sleep. Also, he wasn't entirely sure she wouldn't bite if startled.
By breakfast, the fireplace raccoon had relocated to his kitchen table. Somehow. She now wore a plain blue dress, no lace or frills, just a soft, faded fabric that had seen better days and was elbow-deep in his boiled potatoes, feeding Goldie and Beans under the table as if this was her forest kingdom and he was just the local vegetable peasant.
He dropped a crust of bread on her plate. "Eat. Quietly."
"Thank you!" she chirped like a bird who just pooped on your shoulder. "You make very good potatoes."
Lucien took a long, slow sip of tea, letting the bitterness settle on his tongue, hoping it might steady the rest of him.
It didn't.
He stared into the cup, unimpressed, then glanced toward the shelf where his stash of wines sat, tempting him. A groan escaped him.
Gods, it's too early in the morning. And already, he was tired.
"What… is this?" He noticed the parchment spread beside her, right between a smear of mashed potato and a dripping inkwell.
"Oh. My report," she said proudly. " Target Report: Kind. Gave us food.
Soap: mild floural. Shampoo: minty. Has a bathtub. Owns a bed…"
Lucien picked up another parchment. This one had…sketches. Of him. With a crown of twigs.
"Why do you draw so much?" he asked, suspicious. "Is this some kind of code? A spy trick?"
She looked up, blinking innocently. "It relaxes me. There's no wrong or right in doodling," she added. "No one will strike or burn my palm if I make one small mistake."
Lucien stilled. "What?"
She smiled too quickly. Too brightly. Too…pretentious. "Nothing! I just need to keep my hands busy. Or else… I'll steal your apples. And your soap."
He stared at her. Then down at the parchment.
In large, scratchy letters, it read:
"SPYE REPORT. DO NOT READ."
Lucien closed his eyes. Briefly. Slowly. As if he could reboot his brain and reopen the world without her in it.
"You spelled spy with an 'e.'" He paused. "And the word 'dagger' has no q in it."
Emila peered at the page like she was the offended party here. Then, without breaking eye contact, she grabbed her quill and aggressively stabbed the paper.
"There. No more 'e.'"
She'd also crossed out the entire word, rewritten it as 'spi,' and drawn a sword next to it. With eyelashes.
"I like my dagger with a 'q'. It's got… flavor. It's dagger, but make it spicy."
Lucien blinked. "That's not spicy. That's illiterate."
"Spicy and unique," she corrected, then tapped the word 'spi' like it was a masterpiece. "Also, this is better. Less letters. More efficient."
"That's not a word."
"Yet."
For the umpteenth time, Lucien dragged a hand down his face.
Somewhere in the sky, a higher power was definitely laughing at him. Or sleeping. Or dead.
He looked back at the parchment. Now she was adding sparkles to the word 'Dangeroos.' The "a" was backwards.
Lucien sighed so hard his soul nearly left his body.
The worst part?
He was already cutting another piece of bread.
For her. And the godsdamned cats.
He hated her.
So much.
Possibly.
Maybe.
A little less than yesterday.
Before noon, she and the cats finally left. Lucien watched from the window, arms crossed, jaw set. She picked a few apples on her way out. Then the herbs, mushrooms, too. And because gravity personally hated her, she accidentally bumped one of his potted petunias. She bent down and apologized. Profusely.
They followed the river, her and the cats. No grace, no stealth. Just a woman in a patchy skirt with a sack too big for her and disappeared at the bend, swallowed by green and water and distance.
Only then did he let himself exhale.
But he didn't relax. Couldn't.
Because he knew she'd be back.